


Day 1: Beginning/End - Bioshock Infinite

by flannelmoth



Category: BioShock Infinite
Genre: Gen, also feat Preacher Witting, bad stuff, or whatever the fuck his name is, this is depressing shit, uh tw for water
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-02
Updated: 2017-11-02
Packaged: 2019-01-28 07:14:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 829
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12601168
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flannelmoth/pseuds/flannelmoth
Summary: Day 1 of Writember. Prompt: Beginning/End. Fandom: Bioshock (Infinite)Booker panics. Things are chaotic and mind-fucky-esque. That's a word now.





	Day 1: Beginning/End - Bioshock Infinite

God, that was _cold_. Being abruptly submerged into freezing water without warning; who didn't love a good baptism?

He let a few bubbles escape his mouth, face twisting into a grimace unconsciously. God, he'd love to never have to do this shit again.

Baptism? Wait. When was he getting baptized? He didn't remember this. Maybe the cold had shocked him to the point where he'd forgotten the past... five minutes? Ten? Hour? What had led up to this? He didn't remember any of this at all!

Booker tried to open his eyes, but blackness was all he could make out. It had been midday when he went under, closing his eyes tight in fear. Now he couldn't see _anything_. Maybe if he focused on something other than the strange darkness he could calm himself down, prevent the rising panic and the urge to fight, to struggle, to need to _breathe._

The hand clutching his own, gripping tightly, fingers wrapped around his palm- whose was it? Booker couldn't tell anything about it, and an uncertain fear settled in his gut. Something wasn't right; something felt off.

Soft, slim fingers, or thick, rough ones? A firm grip, or a tight, meaningful one? He couldn't tell. Why couldn't he tell? Everything in his brain was screaming; screaming that something was _wrong_.

Elizabeth? Or the preacher? Whose hand? Both. Neither. Both- the same hand. Different hands? But somehow the same. He felt one, but was sure there were two, gripping his together. How was that possible? _Was_ _it_ even possible?

And the one on his forehead; pushing, forcing him under the water, deeper than he should be going. Who was doing this? What was happening? 

Memories surfaced, but nothing made sense, everything blurred together. First a young preacher, taking his hand in the river many years ago, slowly lowering him into the water. Things shifted, and the preacher grew old, eyes turning a milky white, face creased with lines. His hands were rough and unfriendly, forcing Booker down under the water.

He remembered going under- _which time did this happen? Was this even real?_ \- Elizabeth looking down at him with an unreadable expression. Or was it the preacher's? Her face morphed, twisting into the old man's again, blue eyes dulling, clouding into a milky grey, and suddenly Booker was thrust deeper into the water.

He snarled, last of the air escaping him. Body thrashing, he suddenly knew he _had_ to escape. This wasn't right. He shouldn't be here. He shouldn't--

Blood. Wait- _blood?_ He froze, recognizing the all-too-familiar sensation. His nose was bleeding. He could tell; he didn't even have to see to know it. Not again. Memories mixing, real and fake, this world and others. He hated it; he hated all of it. None of it made any goddamn sense, why couldn't it be _simple_?

He didn't realize his body had stilled to think about the blood. He shouldn't be still, he had to get out of this, had to stop it, they were going to _kill him_! They? The preacher and Elizabeth? Who? Who was ' _they'_?

 

The hands, they wouldn't let go. Hand? Hands, plural? How many were holding him down? Two? Four? _Hundreds?_ He was powerless, letting out a weak cough, trying desperately not to breathe in even though his lungs screamed for air, cried out that they needed to _breathe_. He couldn't die, he needed to--

Needed to what? Protect Elizabeth? Bring them the girl, and wipe away the debt? Kill Comstock? Save Anna? He couldn't figure out why he had to get away, had to escape, had to _not die_. He didn't know what was driving him, only that he _had to_.

_Can't die, I can't die, I can't die, need to- have to-_ the sentence, the thought, it wouldn't _finish_. What was it? What was so important, why couldn't he _remember?_

_Smother._ The word echoed through the water, whispered and echoing. _Smother._ Elizabeth, that was her voice. What did it mean? Smother? Smother what? _Him?_ Did he need to be smothered?

They were killing him, smothering him, _drowning him_. He was going to be _dead._

"Lived, lives, will live."  
"Died, dies, will die." Two voices spoke in unison, words overlapping. Why did he hear them so clearly? How could he?

"You're dying, Mister DeWitt."  
"You're living, Mister DeWitt." Simultaneous. Eerie. Suddenly he knew, however, that this was it. This was the end. _His end._

His lungs couldn't take it, forcing him to gasp for air that he didn't have. That he _couldn't_ have. Water filled his lungs, unpleasant, painful, _god, it hurt._

There was some sort of irony, he realized belatedly. Dying at a baptism. Ending, at what was meant to be rebirth. A _beginning_. He'd laugh if things weren't so dark right now. If he wasn't _dying_.

His eyes closed, and the hands released him, letting his body sink, slowly, down into the depths.

 

Died, dies, will die.

This was the beginning.  
This was the end.


End file.
